


Luck Be a Lady

by hopeless_romantic_spoonie



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Actor Tom Hiddleston, Alcohol, F/M, Friends to Lovers, POV Second Person, Self-Insert, Slow Dancing, Tom Hiddleston Is A Sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_romantic_spoonie/pseuds/hopeless_romantic_spoonie
Summary: All of your friends have a bet going on that you and your best friend Tom will end up together. Are they right to take that gamble?
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Reader, Tom Hiddleston/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	Luck Be a Lady

The crowded bar was the last place you'd expect to meet Tom for drinks, but he had insisted, and you knew better than to argue something so unimportant when his mind was made up.

So you dutifully sat at the back of the room at a high-top table for two, sipping on an old-fashioned with a glass of whiskey, neat, sitting protectively in front of you. You flicked through mind-numbing social media on your phone and rocked back and forth absentmindedly to the music barely heard over the din of the other patrons.

“There you are, darling!”

A smile tugged on your lips before you even looked up to see the source of the velvet-voiced greeting, a broadly grinning Tom stepping through a break in the crowd to stroll up to you, unbuttoning his worn black peacoat. Once it was off and draped over the chair opposite you he tugged you into a tight hug that had your face pressing into his neck. The clean masculinity of his skin was a welcome breather compared to the slightly foul mixture of stale beer and too many colognes and perfumes mingling in the tiny business. It was as warm and inviting as the gentle giant at its source.

He hummed pleasantly into the embrace before pulling away and tugging out the chair directly next to yours, sliding onto it gracefully and taking the drink you offered him. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was going to surprise you and bring Ben - it’s been so long since you’ve seen each other - but when I arrived at his flat he begged off with a stomach bug. You’re stuck with me.”

Eyeing the long lines of your dear friend carelessly draped over the rickety chair as if he had been born to do nothing else, you couldn’t begrudge the turn of events. “I think I’ll manage,” you teased, taking another sip of your drink to hide your all-too-pleased smile.

You fell into an easy, comfortable rhythm, catching up after months due to his hectic acting schedule, the latest a stint on Broadway that had him positively beaming with pride and excitement when he discussed it. He was a ray of sunshine in the dimly lit club, his dazzling wit and enthusiastic personality working with the brush of his thigh against yours and his head dipped toward you to be heard over the noise to scare away any shadows that threatened to creep up from reality.

And wasn’t that how it always was with him? Years hadn’t dulled the effect that he had on you, if anything, it intensified with each carefully planned visit to accommodate his busy lifestyle. A cup of coffee here, a lunch there, a quick bite of dessert when he was breezing through town. It was all worth it to get your fix of your very dearest and closest friend. That your heart clenched and your lungs cried out for air each time he left wasn’t important; there wasn’t anything to be done about it. He was Tom, your best friend, and that was the best that you could possibly hope for as a person forced to exist in the drudging monotony of the real world.

“I absolutely love this song. Dance with me?” Tom asked, interrupting your revery. He stood up and offered you his hand, eyes twinkling with infectious mischief and hope written into the crinkle of his nose.

How could you say no?

Giddy laughter bubbled up from your throat and joined his trademark chuckles as he twirled you around the dance floor, his hand gracing along your spine, your shoulder blade, your middle back while the other kept tenuous but constant contact with yours. It was impossible to have a dreary or down thought when he was beaming down at you with every bit of happiness shining in his eyes and crinkling his nose. Any lack of skill you possessed was lost to his confident lead, any misstep laughed off and compensated with his sure-footed guidance.

Only when the music shifted to a slower song did you beg for a break, patting your hand on his chest. “We aren’t all runners, Tom. I need a rest.”

His hand settled over yours on his chest, holding it there while the other clasped yours in a firm grip that you knew would never falter. Steadfast as the very sun he resembled, your Tom. “A slower dance, then.”

The darkness of the bar made it all too easy for you to allow your forehead to nestle against his shoulder, soaking in the quiet contentment between the two of you. It was easy, in his arms, to just exist. No pretenses, no worries or fears beyond the knowledge that one day you wouldn’t be allowed such a privilege. He wasn’t getting any younger, and the world was quickly coming to terms with just how incredible of a man he truly was. Before long your best friend would spin another around the kitchen of his flat, his lips anchored to her hair as they were yours now. It was best to absorb the moment while you were allowed the honor.

“I missed you,” Tom admitted quietly, the words an intimately whispered secret meant only for your ears on the crowded, sticky dance floor.

You lifted your head to stare up at him, meeting his thoughtful gaze with your own slightly confused expression. “I missed you, too.”

He seemed to think for a second, his brows furrowing and his eyes darting back and forth between your own. Your slow rotations stopped, his feet planted to the ground as if his worn boots were suddenly made of lead. His heartbeat fluttered beneath your palm. “Apparently all our friends have a bet going on that we’ll end up together.”

“They do?” you asked, honestly dumbstruck that your mutual acquaintances would foresee you together. What did you have to offer the man who seemed to have everything? As if you were equals in the grand scheme of things. And even though the very thought was enough to make the butterflies in your stomach twist with hopeful anticipation, you knew that it was a useless feeling, and played it off with a too loud, “That’s mad!”

Some tiny part of you had hoped that he’d correct you, tell you it was a completely reasonable thought and that he agreed with them. But besides the unrecognizable emotion that briefly flickered over his face, he did nothing of the sort. He released you to run his fingers through his ginger curls, letting out a humorless chuckle and dropping his gaze to the floor. “Of course, you’re correct. It’s getting late, isn’t it? I’ll call you a cab.”

Hours later you had drowned your disappointed hopes in enough ice cream and salty chips to send you on your way to a food coma. Curled up in bed, you tossed and turned, replaying the evening in your mind and wondering when you would get another one. It had felt, for the briefest of seconds, like he was trying to break through the barriers of your friendship into something _more_. But you hadn’t been sure, and the thought of damaging what you had to a misunderstanding was enough to make your blood run cold.

You just managed to drift toward sleep when the doorbell rang, jolting you upright in bed. You scrambled for your phone with one hand and any form of protection in the other. There was an umbrella in the entryway. That’d have to do.

“Who is it?” you called, willing your voice to sound sure and strong and only having a small measure of success with it. You were ready to dial emergency services as you edged toward the door, gripping the umbrella like a club in the other.

“Tom.”

The umbrella fell to the floor at your feet, and you rubbed your bleary eyes as you stumbled the rest of the way to the front door and open it up. The chilled winter air assaulted your skin, reminding you that you hadn’t thrown on a robe over your pajamas. Too late now.

Tom didn't look much better than you felt standing in your doorway. His hair was mussed as if he had run his hands through it several times since you parted, and his fair skin allowed you to better see the dark circles lingering beneath his desperate eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders almost up to his ears as he stared up at you through his light lashes.

“It isn’t mad.”

That was all he said. Just those three words and then a silence that echoed and rang in your ears. It took your exhausted brain more than a moment to piece together what he could refer to in the dead of night, running through the evening as your eyes run over his rumpled sweater and creased jeans. Eventually your brain fell back to the conversation that had plagued the last of your waking hours, but that couldn’t be what he meant.

“What?” you asked a little too bluntly, sleeplessness removing some of your polish and politeness.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, pulling out his hands to hold them between you entreatingly. “Us together. I don’t think it’s mad. Not in the slightest.”

Either exhaustion had really taken a toll on you and you were dreaming, or Tom Hiddleston had just given a fairly strong indication that he returned your feelings for him. You quickly rubbed at your eyes as if he’d disappear when you were done. But he was still there, having closed the distance between you in those seconds that you were trying to grasp the situation, deep blue eyes silently pleading with you in the shabby half-light spilling from the street.

Your hands slipped over his even as you fought the revelation with a stammered, “But you, me. We’re so different.”

His hands skated up your wrists, over your arms to ghost along your shoulders to cup your neck so his thumbs could tease at the edge of your jaw. “Not in the ways that truly matter. Not at this moment, right now. Right now I am a man who has been driven almost to insanity for the longest time, thinking nothing of you, even when I’m halfway across the world. When I’m with you,” he paused, allowing his lips to pull upwards into a wistful smile that made your breath catch in your throat. “When I’m with you, I’m free to be myself. It’s a freedom I am rarely granted. I don’t want to lose it, lose myself. You keep me grounded, and yet, when I see your smile or feel your hand upon mine, I feel like I’m flying. Maybe it’s madness, and if it is, then I will happily remain so if it allows me to be with you.”

Words caught in your throat before they could form. Your mouth opened and closed several times in rapid succession as you tried to form a reply to the declaration that you had been longing to hear for so long. Was this a dream? The heat that fluttered in your stomach from his gentle caress of your neck told you otherwise. Boldly, your hands reached up to mirror his, rasping along the light scruff at his razor sharp jawline, delighting in the soft masculinity of it.

“I don’t think it’s mad either,” you admitted quietly, afraid if you spoke any louder the overwhelming happiness you felt bubbling up from inside of you would spill out into uncontrollable laughter that you wouldn’t begin to hope to quell.

The heat of his body was most welcome against the chill he let in. He was long and lean and firm against you as he fitted his hard edges to your soft curves just before he dipped his chin to tease his lips across yours. His kiss was unbearably soft, laced with coffee and chocolate and mint that feathered against you in a gentle caress that promised so much devotion and affection.

“I wonder who is going to win the bet,” you asked breathlessly, pulling Tom inside of your home, closing and locking the door behind you.

He grasped your hand to press a soft kiss to your upturned palm. “We can ask them in the morning.”


End file.
